pants! I’m—”
“Just what did you do, Jimmy?”
“I ripped off two million bucks in bearer bonds from T. J. L. fucking Maxton!” he exclaimed with defiant triumph.
She looked over at him and her face softened.
“Oh Jimmy-honey, don’t you get it? When Maxton realizes what has happened here and picks up his telephone, somebody very good
at finding people is going to be on the other end.”
Dain still lived in the modest bungalow in Tarn Valley, but now also leased a convenient loft over a dilapidated pier next
to the firehouse on the San Francisco waterfront. The loft had a bed, dresser, wardrobe in one corner, bathroom in another,
a kitchen in between. At 8:30 A.M. , two hours afterhe had fallen asleep, the phone jerked him upright out of nightmare.
Albie’s legs were blasted back down the hall out of sight as the door frame was splintered and pocked and ripped by the edges
of the shot pattern
His shoulders slumped. His eyes became human again.
“Bad one, Shenz,” he said.
Shenzie the wonder cat, his head sideways on the pillow and his front paws over the top of the blanket like a sleeping person,
got up with a huge jaw-creaking yawn, stretched fore and aft, and stalked off in search of kibble as the phone rang again.
Dain had not heard him purr since the day, five years before, when he’d been dropped off at Randy Solomon’s Victorian.
Dain blew out a big
whoosh!
of breath, fumbled for the phone with one hand while dashing sweat from his face with the other.
“Dain.”
“Sherman here. A call just came for you.”
Dain sighed. “One hour.”
He stood. He was nude, lean but tremendously muscular, his right shoulder, upper chest, and side of his neck peppered with
small round white marks. On his left arm, rib cage, flank, and thigh were innumerable well-healed surgical scars.
In a gym area furnished with an Olympic bar set, racked dumbbells, benches, pulleys, rings and horses, mats, Dain selected
two 70-pound dumbbells. He began doing warm-up cleans and presses with them. As his skin flushed with the added blood, the
fishbelly scars stood out starkly.
Fifty minutes later, he settled into his usual chair across the desk from Sherman as the bookseller reached out a long arm
to stab playback on the cassette recorder.
Sherman’s voice said, “Three-four-six-two.”
“I want to talk with Edgar Dain.”
“Mr. Dain is not available for phone calls.”
The other voice blustered. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but this is different. Very sensitive, large issues at—”
Dain cut the voice in midsentence by punching off.
“Midwest, maybe Chicago. Asshole, maybe an attorney.”
Sherman said, “Oh, well, that’s that, then. If the man is an attorney, Dain couldn’t possibly do any work for him.”
As their arrangement had blossomed, they had fallen into a professional relationship devoid of the personal. Dain executed
the commissions he accepted through Sherman without discussing them or ever filing any written reports, facts Sherman found
almost unbearably unprofessional.
“Attorneys lie a lot,” said Dain. “Always at the wrong time to the wrong people.”
Sherman began to prowl. He’d believed that being Dain’s go-between would be tweaking the tail of the tiger. Instead, the tiger
stayed in its cage. He scooped up the invariable leather-bound book from the corner of the desk.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
He almost slammed it down again.
“Still drugging your mind with lunacies five years later.”
“It’s my mind.”
“And don’t give me any crap about physical therapy. You use it to remind yourself of…” He paused, fearing he had gone too
far, but Dain did not react, so he asked, “So, what do I tell T. J. L. Maxton when he calls again?”
Dain raised his eyebrows. “That was Teddy Maxton?”
“You know him?”
“Of him. Chicago investment attorney who does occasional legal work for some minor mob figures.”
“You amaze me, Dain. Sometime
“Just what did you do, Jimmy?”
“I ripped off two million bucks in bearer bonds from T. J. L. fucking Maxton!” he exclaimed with defiant triumph.
She looked over at him and her face softened.
“Oh Jimmy-honey, don’t you get it? When Maxton realizes what has happened here and picks up his telephone, somebody very good
at finding people is going to be on the other end.”
Dain still lived in the modest bungalow in Tarn Valley, but now also leased a convenient loft over a dilapidated pier next
to the firehouse on the San Francisco waterfront. The loft had a bed, dresser, wardrobe in one corner, bathroom in another,
a kitchen in between. At 8:30 A.M. , two hours afterhe had fallen asleep, the phone jerked him upright out of nightmare.
Albie’s legs were blasted back down the hall out of sight as the door frame was splintered and pocked and ripped by the edges
of the shot pattern
His shoulders slumped. His eyes became human again.
“Bad one, Shenz,” he said.
Shenzie the wonder cat, his head sideways on the pillow and his front paws over the top of the blanket like a sleeping person,
got up with a huge jaw-creaking yawn, stretched fore and aft, and stalked off in search of kibble as the phone rang again.
Dain had not heard him purr since the day, five years before, when he’d been dropped off at Randy Solomon’s Victorian.
Dain blew out a big
whoosh!
of breath, fumbled for the phone with one hand while dashing sweat from his face with the other.
“Dain.”
“Sherman here. A call just came for you.”
Dain sighed. “One hour.”
He stood. He was nude, lean but tremendously muscular, his right shoulder, upper chest, and side of his neck peppered with
small round white marks. On his left arm, rib cage, flank, and thigh were innumerable well-healed surgical scars.
In a gym area furnished with an Olympic bar set, racked dumbbells, benches, pulleys, rings and horses, mats, Dain selected
two 70-pound dumbbells. He began doing warm-up cleans and presses with them. As his skin flushed with the added blood, the
fishbelly scars stood out starkly.
Fifty minutes later, he settled into his usual chair across the desk from Sherman as the bookseller reached out a long arm
to stab playback on the cassette recorder.
Sherman’s voice said, “Three-four-six-two.”
“I want to talk with Edgar Dain.”
“Mr. Dain is not available for phone calls.”
The other voice blustered. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but this is different. Very sensitive, large issues at—”
Dain cut the voice in midsentence by punching off.
“Midwest, maybe Chicago. Asshole, maybe an attorney.”
Sherman said, “Oh, well, that’s that, then. If the man is an attorney, Dain couldn’t possibly do any work for him.”
As their arrangement had blossomed, they had fallen into a professional relationship devoid of the personal. Dain executed
the commissions he accepted through Sherman without discussing them or ever filing any written reports, facts Sherman found
almost unbearably unprofessional.
“Attorneys lie a lot,” said Dain. “Always at the wrong time to the wrong people.”
Sherman began to prowl. He’d believed that being Dain’s go-between would be tweaking the tail of the tiger. Instead, the tiger
stayed in its cage. He scooped up the invariable leather-bound book from the corner of the desk.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
He almost slammed it down again.
“Still drugging your mind with lunacies five years later.”
“It’s my mind.”
“And don’t give me any crap about physical therapy. You use it to remind yourself of…” He paused, fearing he had gone too
far, but Dain did not react, so he asked, “So, what do I tell T. J. L. Maxton when he calls again?”
Dain raised his eyebrows. “That was Teddy Maxton?”
“You know him?”
“Of him. Chicago investment attorney who does occasional legal work for some minor mob figures.”
“You amaze me, Dain. Sometime
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